


What We May Become

by Narya (Narya_Flame), Narya_Flame



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Inspired by Art, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Piercings, Post-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, Rebirth, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Thunderstorms, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: "Love is begun by timeAnd time qualifies the spark and fire of it..."-Hamlet,William Shakespeare.*The story of Caranthir and Finrod's relationship, spanning Valinor and Beleriand, wars and oaths, life and death - and, eventually, rebirth.Written for TRSB20; inspired by art by the amazing Dalandel.
Relationships: Amarië & Finrod Felagund | Findárato, Amarië/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Argon | Arakáno & Caranthir | Morifinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Amarië, Caranthir | Morifinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 24
Kudos: 44
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. The Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dalandel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalandel/gifts).



> I've put the art in a chapter by itself, at the beginning, as it doesn't illustrate a particular scene, but I think it's nice for folks to be able to see it before they start reading.
> 
> Dalandel - I really hope you like the fic <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Aman**

**Fourth Age**

In the end it was Amárië's choice – a fact that would surprise both Finrod and Caranthir for years to come.

“He cannot go to Arko,” she told Finrod. Underneath, unspoken, lay the words, _not with the children._ “And Nerdanel...well. You saw.”

“Yes,” said Finrod. “I did.”

They were alone in their garden. The others had departed earlier that day; now they watched as spangles of light danced on the river, and let the warmth of spring soak into their skin.

“So it's decided.”

“I suppose it is.”

Amárië looked at him carefully. “My darling, I'm not a fool. Your aunts might believe in this milk-and-marble indifference, but I most certainly do not. Stop insulting my intelligence and tell me what you think.”

Finrod turned, startled for a moment, and then laughed. “In truth I don't know what I think. Those who saw them at the end believed they were too far gone for any return to be possible. Some even said that Manwë had forbidden it.”

“Which is evidently not true.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it was true, once upon a time. The Valar have changed their minds before.”

The cry of an inland gull sliced the air. Bees hummed softly among the wildflowers running riot in the grass. Amárië tipped her head back as though consulting the clouds, and asked, “Are you afraid?”

“Of Caranthir?” He gaped at her, incredulous. “Of course not!”

“No, not of him, or not precisely. But you know how things change when someone returns. Look at Elenwë, and Turgon.”

Finrod's mouth curled. “Turgon will not be best pleased if we take a Fëanorion under our roof.”

“No. But what do you suggest? That we let Caranthir camp in a field?”

He snorted. “He'd be digging it up for ore within three days.” Gently, he took Amárië's hand. “Are you quite sure about this? It won't be easy – for any of us.”

“I know your history with him. You've never hidden that from me.”

“That isn't what I meant. Nerdanel is afraid to meet him in case he believes she betrayed them -”

"I don't think it's as simple as that," Amárië interrupted. 

"But do you not think he will feel the same way about me?"

She lifted his hand to her cheek. "My dear, you _had_ to go with Beren, oath or not. There was no other way."

"I know." And he had tried to explain - foolishly, perhaps, and, as it turned out, pointlessly. Would that be enough? Could he show him the letter, all these Ages later?

_Not straight away, at least._

He kissed Amárië's palm and lifted his eyes to the hill of Túna beyond the river, where Tirion gleamed bright in the sun. “I think my father believed – or rather, hoped – that this day would never come. Not because he has ceased to care for our kin, but because of what it will mean in the city, and beyond. At best Caranthir will be an object of fascination; at worst...”

“Then isn't it best to have him here, at least to begin with? Away from prying eyes and chattering tongues?” She took his other hand and laced their fingers together. “And for his own good he will need quiet, and rest. You know better than anyone that nobody who walks from those Halls is truly healed.”

Finrod smiled and kissed the side of her head. Her hair was warm on his lips, and it smelled of honey and spice. “I'm hardly typical. And things have improved since then. At least now, families are given a little time to prepare.”

“And are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Prepared.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. “I will be.”


	3. Chapter 3

They had not been close as children. Caranthir – or Moryo, as his brothers called him then – was older by some distance; he preferred wandering the cool, quiet woodlands and rocky hills near the summer house to heeding the demands of small, noisy cousins. When forced into company he was often sulky and occasionally bad-tempered. He was an enigma to Finrod, roaming the wilds in clothes that an exasperated Indis maintained were more suitable for a Dark Elf of Endor than a Prince of the Noldor in Aman. (Nerdanel, ever practical, would mildly state that at least the dirt washed out well.) His hair was rarely brushed and never braided, except when his parents or grandparents insisted on him being presentable for some family event or formal ceremony, and even then he would stay quiet and slip off as soon as he was no longer needed.

When they were older, Finrod kept company with his brothers, with Turgon, and with Celegorm and Curufin. It was Celegorm who taught him to ride and hunt, and it was with Turgon and occasionally Curufin that he devoured his grandfather's libraries, both in the north and in Tirion. Caranthir eventually outgrew his fixation with hideous clothes and developed a taste for fine textiles, usually in the bright reds and golds of his family house. Even so, he was rarely seen in the city, though Nelyo and sometimes Maglor would oversee the studies of their younger siblings and cousins. 

Once, half-idly, Finrod asked his cousins why Caranthir never joined them.

“Why would we want him to?” returned Angrod before Nelyo could answer. 

There was no malice in it – not yet; only a youthful lack of understanding. Lively, gregarious Angrod could not comprehend his solitary older cousin, and nor did he wish to. A gently raised eyebrow from Nelyo, though, elicited a murmured apology and a delicate flush of the cheek.

“Moryo's feelings about the city are complicated,” Nelyo explained – not, thought Finrod, that it explained very much at all. 

“Don't let him hear you use that name.” Maglor's voice was playful enough, but a warning echoed lightly beneath.

Nelyo inclined his head, acknowledging. “Carnistir has never cared much for crowds; he has few official duties, and no more studies to complete. There is no reason for him to be here if he does not wish it.”

Something in his tone brooked no further discussion. Finrod returned to his books.

Caranthir had rooms in the city, despite scarcely using them – light, spacious apartments near the Great Square, hung with opulent tapestries in jewel-bright thread. Mostly they were for the rare occasions that he attended some sort of ceremony or function, representing the House of Fëanor if neither Nelyo nor Maglor were able to. Celegorm, of course, was next in seniority, utterly charming and capable of being very diplomatic when he chose – but though Finrod had idolised his fair-haired cousin as a child, he had to admit that even in the most elegant clothes and formal settings, there was a touch of the wild in Celegorm, an element of mischief and chaos, a wolf's cry echoing on the edge of the wind. Finrod couldn't blame Fëanor and Nerdanel for passing him over in favour of Caranthir for these events; Caranthir may not say much, but was at least not likely to do anything scandalous. 

“Quite the transformation,” remarked Finrod's father Arafinwë at the banquet to honour the founding of the Weavers' Guild.

Caranthir, resplendent in an embroidered crimson robe and a circlet of polished moonstones, had been appointed as their sponsor; now he made his way around the room, speaking briefly with each Guildmaster and guest in turn, bowing and clasping their hands and enquiring earnestly about their wares, and trade, and methods. 

“This is something he cares about,” Finrod responded. 

“I cannot imagine where the interest has come from.”

“His grandmother, perhaps? Míriel, I mean,” he clarified quickly. All of the cousins called Indis “grandmother”, despite Fëanor's poorly concealed annoyance.

Arafinwë nodded. “Perhaps.”

Caranthir looked up, and the lamplight caught in his hair and lit his face. Normally his thick, coarse tresses were the dull brown of a dark winter wood, but tonight they were brushed into gleaming splendour, and the touch of gold light set streaks of chestnut racing through the chocolate waves. He met Finrod's eyes, and there was something sharp and yet almost vulnerable in the ice-grey gaze, as though he had heard – or sensed – part of Finrod's conversation with his father.

Finrod stepped forward, intending to speak to him, but his cousin was approached by some Guild official, and Caranthir broke off the eye contact and the moment passed.

In time Finrod and Turgon both won scholarships to Tirion's great university, like Fingon and Nelyo before them, and for a while life revolved around their studies. Most family gatherings these days were held at the summer house, outside Tirion; Caranthir attended these, and he and Finrod spoke as one does to family members one does not know well, but his cousin spent most of his time with Maglor – and, as time went on, with Arakáno. This made little sense in Finrod's eyes; he remembered very well how Caranthir had avoided him and his brothers at the same age, yet Arko trailed after him like a puppy-dog following its master, and Caranthir seemed to enjoy it.

Student life, though, gave Finrod little time to dwell on such things. He worked hard, grappling with the theory of language, delving into the mysteries of philosophy, revelling in the great lays and musical works of the masters. He played hard too, far harder than Turgon, who applied himself to his books with a fervour that bordered on obsession. Meanwhile, he, Finrod, frequented the dance rooms and taverns of Tirion and indulged in their delights with relish – too much relish, on occasion. One cool, fresh evening he found himself sprawled in the streets beneath a lamp post, not entirely sure how he got there, or why he was lying on his back staring up at the sky – and such a sky, indigo swirled with pink and blue and silver, the colours as delicate as the mist of breath on glass...delicate...silver...breath...there had been a girl, he remembered, a girl with silver hair. And a liqueur, sweet like the miruvórë, but with strength like fire...

His limbs felt light and somehow not quite attached to his body. _Home._ The idea penetrated the hot haze in his brain. _You need to go home._

He tried to get to his feet, but his stomach burned and his vision blackened. Finrod whimpered, and clung to the lamp post while the world tilted around him like a child's spinning disc.

_Not good. Bad idea._

Sick and giddy, he sank back to his knees and pressed his forehead against the cool metal – and then he felt a pair of strong hands under his arms, lifting him, supporting him as he staggered sideways.

“Put your arm around me, cousin. Let's get you to bed.”

Coarse, dark hair tickled his cheek. “Moryo...?”

 _He doesn't like that name. He probably doesn't like **you**_.

Caranthir said nothing. Finrod, too, closed his mouth, afraid he might throw up; he tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, but the floor never seemed to be quite where he thought it was, and he stumbled more than once.

Somehow or other they made it back to Caranthir's rooms. Deftly, gently, Caranthir took off Finrod's boots and slid him into bed, and then set a glass of water on the side table.

“I'm not drunk,” Finrod managed to mumble, though the bed was rocking under him like a child's cradle.

“Hush.”

“I'm _not._ ” He tried to sit up, moaned as the world slid sideways, and put his cheek back against the cool cotton pillows. “Why's the bed moving?”

A rich chuckle like dark chocolate. “Go to sleep, you little fool. You'll feel better in the morning.”

As Finrod slipped into an uneasy sleep, he felt light, careful fingers brush his hair from his face and tuck it neatly behind his ears.


	4. Chapter 4

The Halls of Mandos were cold. 

Caranthir remembered little else afterwards – the cold, and the gaps in his mind where things would not quite knit back together. The laws of time seemed not to apply in here; he could recollect his whole life in a heartbeat, and dwell for a seeming Age on the slightest fragments. Maglor's arm around him, explaining haltingly how the way he perceived the Song was not so unlike the way Caranthir experienced the emotions of others. Arko's wide grey eyes, peeping out at him from under a pile of sackcloth at the bow of a sailing boat. His father's body, bursting into flame. Finrod, drunk, sliding into sleep in Caranthir's bed in Tirion...his own fingers brushing back his cousin's golden hair, one strand catching in the diamond stud that pierced his ear...Finrod, by the shores of Mithrim, wary, angry, grieving, offering comfort all the same...thunder over Thargelion...Finrod...

The Halls of Mandos were cold. Even re-embodied, outside in those cursed woods with their flat trees and the shadows that seemed to breathe - a child's nightmare - Caranthir felt it still.


	5. Chapter 5

There was something in the air out here, Finrod thought, that always made him queasy. 

He had been back twice since his own rebirth – once for Edrahil, and again for Turgon. Each time as he approached, he'd felt the hot-cold creep of guilt under his skin, like worms nibbling into his soul to lay his secrets bare. There was the sense that one shouldn't be here at all, the feeling of pressing against an invisible barrier, like repelling magnets pushing one another apart. He remembered that the Hobbit, Samwise, had spoken of something similar at the gateway of the Tower of Cirith Ungol. Perhaps it was the same kind of sorcery – or perhaps it was the presence of that terrible Door, out on the promontory beyond the Halls, which was said to seal Morgoth away from the world.

He would return, one day. That was one of the things that Finrod knew.

He had brought a light, covered wagon most of the way, knowing from experience that Caranthir would not be strong enough to ride for days on end. The final stretch, though, he took on foot. It was easier to find his way like this. It wasn't that the Halls and their surroundings were difficult to locate; it was more that they were easier to find if you pretended to the land around you that you weren't really looking for them at all.

At length he came to the strange, flat, wriggling shadows of Námo's wood. Beyond, wreathed in a cold blue mist, towered the Halls, and the whisper of the sea hissed through the air. The living, Finrod knew, could not walk through the wood to the Halls unless Námo himself wanted them to come; Fingon had tried, many times, looking for Maedhros, and somehow always found himself on the edge of the woods again, facing the road back home. 

But Finrod had no need to enter the woods. Caranthir was waiting for him, as he had known he would be. 

He swallowed. This was not the Caranthir of Beleriand, imperious, richly decorated in Dwarvish jewels and intricately embroidered cloth, nor yet the calm, practised diplomat who had presided over city Guilds, nor even the wild, sullen youth who had refused to brush his hair for dinner. His hair hung long and loose over his shoulders, and the rows of piercings that had once studded his ears had vanished without trace. He watched Finrod like a wary animal, attired in the simple off-white shift of all those who walked out of the Halls and through the woods.

_You'd think after all these Ages, they might realise that those damned things aren't the slightest use for travel._

Still, it was better than being sent stumbling out naked, which had happened to him and a few unlucky others. Finrod unhooked a bundle from the side of the pack he carried, and held it out to Caranthir.

“I brought you some clothes.” Calm. Practical. Neutral.

His cousin accepted the bundle. The wary look subsided, replaced by something like puzzlement.

“You weren't expecting me,” Finrod said gently.

Caranthir shook his head. “I'm not sure who I did expect.” A bitter quirk of the mouth. “Not Mother.”

Finrod longed to tell him how glad Nerdanel was for his return, how deeply she had missed him – all of them – but Caranthir had never spoken of her in Beleriand. He could not say what his cousin thought of Nerdanel now. 

_Or what he thinks of you._

He stepped forward, gently lifting one hand towards Caranthir's face. “May I?”

Caranthir closed his eyes and nodded.

The new skin would be tender, so Finrod was careful, stroking his fingertips along the cheekbone and under the jaw, brushing his thumb over the lips. His cousin's breath shivered; lightly, Finrod kissed his forehead, and felt his own breath catch at the familiar tickle of the coarse brown hair. “Welcome back, my dear.”

“I'm the first, aren't I?” Caranthir asked.

Finrod didn't have to ask what he meant. “Yes. Though Fingon tried several times to go back and retrieve Maedhros, before he realised it was useless.”

The quirk of the lips became a smile, a genuine one that touched the sharp grey eyes. “That does not surprise me at all.”

Finrod smiled back. “Nor me. And I can hardly blame him. It worked once before.”

Caranthir stepped back and traced his fingers over the bundle of clothes. They were well made, but simple, and comfortable – nothing that would itch or irritate on the long ride south. Finrod turned, allowing him to change in privacy. It seemed odd – they were no strangers to each others' bodies, after all – but he knew very well how it felt, reborn into flesh that both was and was not your own.

“Better?” he asked when Caranthir was finished.

His cousin nodded. 

“There are more things for you back at the house. Amárië insisted on going shopping.” 

A guarded look flickered in Caranthir's eyes. “How is she?”

“She's well.” Another smile, this one more complicated. “She's looking forward to seeing you.”

Caranthir frowned a little. “I'm staying with you?”

“Arko is married now – a girl from a village near the Pass of Calacirya. They have two children. Twins.”

The dark eyebrows flew up. Finrod didn't have to reach for his mind to know what passed through it. _And they don't know whether I can be trusted._

Guilt prickled through Finrod that had nothing to do with his proximity to the Halls. Quickly he set a guard around his own thoughts and feelings, knowing that his cousin could sense them, not sure yet how much he wanted to show – and resignation settled over Caranthir's face like dust on the leaves of a rose.


	6. Chapter 6

It was strange, in a way, to see Caranthir so quiet when for a while they had known each other so well. He had expected it, Finrod reminded himself – but there was no _fire_ in this Caranthir, no sullen embers, no roaring flame of temper. He remembered how the seven brothers had burned at Tirion, their faces wild in the light of the torches, swearing the Oath that would ensnare them all.

“ _Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,  
__Dread nor danger, not Doom itself  
__Shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro’s kin,  
__Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,_  
_Finding keepeth or afar casteth  
__A Silmaril…”_

Morgoth's lies had long fractured the friendships between their Houses, and Finrod would not speak openly against his father, but his heart leapt at their words, and a yearning ache awoke in his soul, a longing for a land without boundaries or rules, a land of wild storms and jagged rocks and starlight and blood and bone and danger...a longing that even the slaughter at Alqualondë could not quench. Arafinwë's departure only hardened his heart – and the Noldor that survived the Ice were like diamonds, compressed by the mantle of their grief into beings of a hard and terrible beauty.

But their fierce triumph at setting foot on Middle-earth did not last long. Young, high-hearted Arakáno was slain at Lammoth, and when they reached Lake Mithrim, they found that Nelyo had been taken by the enemy.

To nobody's surprise, Fingon was gone the next morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Mithrim**

**F.A. 2**

“Cousin.”

Caranthir turned. The voice was not one he had expected to hear.

Finrod stood in the entrance to his tent, the canvas held to one side. They had not met since the Fëanorian host set sail in the swan-ships, leaving their kinsfolk behind. Caranthir would scarcely have needed his gifts to detect the emotions rolling in waves off his kinsman, and Finrod's blue eyes were undeniably wary.

“You had business with my uncle?” Finrod asked.

Caranthir nodded. “Maglor has decided that we will remove our camp to the southern shores. He feels it would be for the best.” _And he is not the only one._ Around him, his uncle's camp seethed and simmered like an angry sea. He sensed furious eyes watching him even as he stood here, speaking calmly with his cousin as he had every right to do. “Fingolfin agrees.”

“Do you?”

Caranthir's mouth curled without humour. “It is not my decision.”

Then, to his astonishment, Finrod tilted his head, inviting him inside.

The tent was comfortable enough – space for the two of them to stand; cushions to sit on; a small folding table; a pallet in the corner, heaped with blankets. An unopened bottle of wine stood next to his cousin's pillow, but Caranthir refrained from remarking on it. He did not think Finrod would take kindly to teasing. Not just yet.

“The provisions reached you, I take it?” he said instead.

“As you see.” Finrod did indicate the wine – and then he turned back, and the open, lovely face for a moment showed nothing but grief. “Cousin, I cannot begin to say how sorry I am about Nelyo.”

The name was like a burning dart. “Thank you.”

“You know that Fingon has gone after him?”

He nodded slowly. “Our uncle told me. I do not think I have ever seen him so...wounded.”

“Neither have I.” Finrod exhaled slowly. “He fears that we have lost them both.”

Caranthir did not like to voice what he thought – that rescue was hopeless. “And so soon after Arko...”

“Yes.” Almost hesitantly, Finrod laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry for that as well. Of course we are all grieving, but I know how deeply you cared for him.”

Sorrow shuddered through Caranthir again, as cold and heavy as the mists that sat over the lake. He thought of the boy who had stowed away aboard his fishing boat – and then Finrod took him in his arms, and Caranthir felt the warmth of his cousin's sympathy, the sharp blade of his grief, skeins of fear and resentment, and somehow, underneath it all, hope.

He drew back, blinking, astonished.

“You do feel it, then.” Finrod smiled. “I wondered.”

“How did you...?”

“In the end it was the only thing that made sense – why you used to avoid crowds when you were younger, why you were able to cope with them later. I assume you learned to control it?”

“Yes. In part. Grandfather taught me.”

Finrod nodded. “I've watched you, down the years. You turn your head a little to one side when someone speaks, as though you're listening to something inside or beyond their words. If someone is hurting, you know when to offer comfort, and when to withdraw. You react to things that people haven't said. You can always tell when someone's lying -”

“Almost always,” Caranthir corrected. “I cannot hear the words of their thoughts; I only know when what they are feeling is at odds with what they say.”

“What is it like?”

Caranthir breathed in, thinking. “It is like...great, undulating shapes of emotion, hot, fierce, frightening, utterly unbearable. And it isn't only that I can't hear the words. You know that those truly gifted with _osanwé_ can choose the mental communications they hear, and...I suppose translate them, as one translates a written script on a page into meanings in one's mind. I cannot do that. I only _feel._ Do not wish for it,” he added. “It is terrible.”

Finrod nodded again, more thoughtfully. He crossed the tent and uncorked the wine, and offered it to Caranthir with an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid we have no glasses or goblets.”

Caranthir barked a laugh. “I should hope we're all past caring about such things.”

They settled onto the cushions. Caranthir shook his head, disbelieving. “I cannot believe I am telling you this. I kept it secret for so long, except from a very few...”

“I've said nothing to anyone else,” Finrod assured him. “Would it help if I told you that I have a secret too?”

“Your visions.” It was a risk – but Caranthir was relieved to feel nothing but irritated amusement from his cousin.

“Yavanna's tits, is nothing private in this family?” Finrod exclaimed. “Who told _you_? Or did you guess?”

“Celegorm told me, although not what it is that you see.”

“I will kill him.” Finrod shook his head. “It isn't always visions. In fact, it's rarely so clear as that. But the reason I'm telling you now...” Finrod took a breath. “Maglor told me that Nelyo hangs from Thangorodrim by his wrist.”

Caranthir nodded, feeling slightly sick.

“When I was barely more than a boy, I had one of my...episodes, that was a vision in truth. At the time I thought it made no sense, but now I'm less sure.”

“What did you see?”

“Three black peaks against a smoky yellow sky. Nelyo's face, savaged and ruined – and Fingon, hacking at his wrist with a sword, face blazing and covered with blood.” Finrod shivered, and Caranthir passed him the wine. “He was like a demon from the ancient tales.”

Caranthir drew his long legs up under his chin. “You think that our cousin will save my brother by maiming him for life.”

“I'm not sure that I think he can save him. I do know that he's going to try.” He put out a hand, covered Caranthir's wrist with his long, elegant fingers. The candlelight guttered, and the blue eyes darkened. “What else do _you_ know with this gift of yours, cousin mine?”

“Ah.” Caranthir smiled slowly, a little regretfully. “I won't insult you by pretending I don't know what you mean.” He had known the night that he put Finrod to bed in his own room, if he hadn't known it before that – he had wondered, that night at the Weavers' Guild, but thought little of it. A boyish attraction to an older cousin he did not know very well. Such things were not uncommon, and best left alone.

“Then you'll know nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed.”

“Oh, yes, I'm angry with you,” agreed Finrod. “I'm angry in ways I don't think I'll be able to talk about for some years to come.” He took Caranthir's face in his hands, and brushed the long brown hair back behind his ears. “And yet...”

“Please, cousin.” Caranthir curved one hand around Finrod's cheek, and stroked his thumb across the elegant line of the bone. The boy was a man now, yes, but their world was a different place. “Do not. We saw at Losgar what the Oath can do.”

Finrod sat back. “You're afraid of it,” he realised.

“I think...” The thought came to him not as a shock, but like a piece of forgotten knowledge unearthed. “I think I am afraid of what we may become.”

Finrod took another sip of wine, then laid it aside, and rested his brow against his cousin's. “I'm not.”

He brushed his fingers against the soft fabric of Caranthir's shirt. His touch strayed lower, and Caranthir moaned as warmth and hunger awoke in response. Mouth found mouth, and fire built and burned between them as they tumbled down, down into ecstasy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Aman**

**Fourth Age**

Caranthir woke to the sun on his face and the sound of gulls, and with the ache of desire still hot in his groin.

He could not relieve himself here, not when Amárië might find the sheets. Instead he stumbled to the bathroom, still only half-awake, and stifled his cries as he brought himself to climax.

_Fin..._

He leaned against the cool tiled walls, legs still trembling. The fantasy seemed unlikely to find its way into reality this time, for all Finrod's tenderness when they had met outside the Halls. Finrod had fenced him out of his mind, something he had never wanted or tried to do before.

_Perhaps it's for the best._

It was still strange to wake in the house that his cousin shared with Amárië. He knew that Finrod had missed her deeply, though he had kept it carefully buried in Beleriand, so he was not surprised that his cousin had sought her out – nor was he surprised to find that they were apparently no longer lovers. Quite what the nature of their relationship was, though, he would have been hard pressed to explain.

He washed and returned to his rooms, and hunted through the dresser for his preferred clothes. Finrod or Amárië – he suspected the latter – kept his wardrobe supplied with high-quality, fashionable outfits in the shades of red and gold and the opulent fabrics that he had once so loved to wear, but somehow it felt wrong now. Like very literally wearing a dead man's shoes. Instead he pulled out the plain dark green shirt and brown leggings that were more akin to the clothes he had once roamed the countryside in when they visited his grandfather's summer house.

He wondered what had become of that house. He had not yet dared to ask, and he didn't think he was ready to go and see.

In the kitchens Amárië was clattering about, singing a ridiculous ditty about the antics of the Man in the Moon.

_“With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!_  
_the cow jumped over the Moon...”_

He smiled. He couldn't help it; there were no guards and fences around Amárië's mind, and the pragmatic cheer with which she approached life was infectious. “If you've told me the stories aright, then that song is more trouble than it's worth.”

She turned to him and grinned. “The difference being that I'm not on the run with a magic ring.”

“It was more than a magic ring.” Based on certain things Maedhros had said when he returned from Thangorodrim, Caranthir had theories about what Sauron had been trying to achieve when he worked with Celebrimbor on those particular baubles, but it was not a discussion for breakfast. “You're burning the porridge.”

“So I am.” Amárië inspected the damage, and wrinkled her nose. “Oh dear.”

“Why don't you let the housekeeper do it?”

She shrugged. “I do, usually. But she's busy at the moment, and you're going out, so I thought I'd try to have breakfast ready for you.”

“I'm going out?” Caranthir repeated. “Is there an appointment I don't know about?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

He shuddered, thinking of the young Healer who had visited a few days before and poked and prodded every conceivable part of him, as well as asked him a series of increasingly ridiculous questions about his diet, exercise regime, mental wellbeing, hobbies, relationships, hopes, regrets, musical preferences and favourite childhood games. He had been as patient as he could, knowing his own reputation for volatility, and even had he been inclined to snap, he had been able to feel the poor woman's embarrassment. She was only doing her job, and clearly found it as silly as he did that she was required to perform checks on a body newly crafted by the Maiar of Námo. What would the Healers do if they found anything wrong? Send it back to Mandos for a replacement?

Amárië had assumed an air of mystery. Caranthir raised an eyebrow at her but didn't take the bait further, asking instead, “Where's Finrod?”

“He left early to go into Tirion.” She sounded faintly apologetic. “He didn't think you would want to go.”

“I should say not.”

“Well, it's a relief to hear you haven't changed,” laughed a familiar voice.

“Arko!”

Laughing too, he got to his feet. Arakáno ducked under the doorway and crossed the room, then hesitated in front of him. “Can I – is it alright –?”

“Of course it is.” He pulled his youngest cousin into a tight embrace. “They tell me you're married now?”

Arko nodded, stepping back, eyes shining. “Her name is Alassiel. Carn – Caranthir, she's wonderful. And I've told her all about you; she wants you to come for dinner, and meet the twins.”

Caranthir shot Amárië a disbelieving look. He'd known well enough why he hadn't been asked to stay with Arko and his family, and he suspected it wasn't his young cousin's doing – although Arko was not so young, not now, he reminded himself.

Amárië shrugged. “I might have mentioned that you don't have three heads.”

“Or at least he keeps the other two well hidden,” Arko grinned, and took Caranthir's arm. “Come on, cousin. We're going for a walk – or we are if you're up to it?”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

“Don't you want breakfast?” Amárië called.

Arko made a sound of disbelief. “I brought bread and fruit with me. I love you dearly, Amárië, but I'm afraid I don't trust your cooking.”

It was a fine day and the weather was set to hold, so they went up into the hills, making for the lake that supplied Tirion's aqueduct. Arko's reasoning was that it would be easier on Caranthir if they were going downhill at the end of the day.

“I'm not an invalid,” he grumbled.

“No, but don't forget that I've been in your position.” They had paused on a rocky outcrop; Arko passed him a waterskin and a glossy red apple. “You can pretend all you like, you old grouse, but you can't fool me.”

 _And nor can you fool me._ After his strange, fragile reunion with Finrod had been chilled by his cousin's mental retreat, Arko's humour and openness were like miruvórë for the soul. “Are you not older than me now? Is that how it works?”

Arko shrugged. “I don't think anyone's counting any more.” He gave Caranthir a shrewd look. “Although in that get-up, you look older than our grandfather.”

Caranthir glared. “It hardly matters up here. Nobody sees me, except Amárië and the household staff.”

“And Finrod.”

“He's barely here. Even my mother hasn't been to see me.”

“Have you asked her to?”

“No,” Caranthir admitted. He pulled up a stem of grass. “Though apparently you had no qualms about turning up uninvited – or uninvited by me, anyway.”

Arko shrugged again, smiling. “It's how we've always been together, ever since you took me on that fishing trip.”

“I did not take you anywhere. You stowed away on my boat.”

“Exactly. And aren't you glad that I did?”

Caranthir sighed. “Yes.”

Gently, Arko laid a hand on his arm. “It can't be that you're back to being the old, solitary, bad-tempered Morifinwë who came to hate his own name because it was used to tease him -”

“I could feel everything that everybody around me was feeling! Is it any wonder I was bad-tempered?”

“I know,” Arko soothed. “But that can't be it; you learned to control it, and that isn't the sort of thing one loses in the Halls.”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of what we all think of you now, and so you're trying to keep us away?”

Caranthir turned his face to the sun. “You're as bad as that thrice-damned Healer from Tirion who interrogated me four days ago.”

“Perhaps,” Arko admitted. “But give it some thought. I know how hard it was for me, and I know that for you there's...”

Caranthir lifted an eyebrow and smiled wryly. “Perhaps we should not go there.”

“No, perhaps not.” Arko picked up a pebble and flung it off the ledge. “There's no easy way through, it, cousin. Certainly not on your own. So...please let us help you?”

“I'd promise you anything if it will stop you sounding like one of those awful Verbal Processing Groups that Healer was talking about.”

Arko gave him a wicked smile. “Anything?”

“Within reason.”

“Good. Stop dressing like the wild man of the woods.”

His cousin seemed in no hurry to move on – Caranthir knew he was giving him a break after the first leg of their hike, but decided not to object. Instead he meandered about on the precipice, following the call of the wind and the cry of the birds as he used to when he was a child. He couldn't understand them, not like Celegorm, but he found them more peaceful to be around than people. Their emotions were simpler, blunter, easier to understand.

A short distance away, set into the face of the rock, a nest of chirping chicks glared down at him – ugly, angry-looking things with tufts of grey down and beaks like iron scythes.

“What are they?” Arko asked softly, coming up behind him.

“Eagles.” Caranthir smiled. “Or they will be, one day.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Thargelion**

**F.A. 262**

“Come back to bed.”

“In a moment.” Caranthir stood naked at the window, the muscles of his form occasionally illuminated by the shuddering flash of lightning.

Finrod propped himself up on his elbow and batted his lashes appealingly. “Cousin. Please.”

Caranthir turned, and smiled the slow, lazy smile that made Finrod's groin ache. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Look so...perfect, even after the evening we've had.” He held out a fistful of his own hair, wild and wavy and tangled. “I look like one of Yavanna's tree-shepherds.”

“You look wonderful.” Finrod smiled and stretched out like a cat. “And there's plenty of evening left.”

“Yes, and we haven't done half of the things we ought to.”

“I'll say.”

Caranthir threw him a filthy look. He left the window and pulled on a vermilion silk robe, then poured them both a glass of wine and sat down on the edge of the bed. “We haven't decided what to do about taxes on the new trade routes.”

“Impose some,” Finrod suggested playfully.

“Very helpful.”

“Thank you.”

Caranthir unrolled the map that he kept on his bedside table. “The rates shouldn't be high, I don't think. We want to incentivise the Dwarves to bring the ore this way, and then...”

“Cousin.”

“Hmm?”

The muffled echo of thunder rolled down from the Blue Mountains. Finrod lay back down and held out a hand. “Come to bed. Properly. The taxes can wait.”

They wound their arms around one another. Finrod kissed his cousin deeply, tasting wine and spice on his tongue, and teased his fingers along the edge of his robe. He hardened as Caranthir moaned, and he slipped the silky garment off, planting gentle kisses along Caranthir's collarbone and throat. He bit gently at the skin of his shoulder, and then dipped lower, teasing one nipple with his tongue.

“Finrod...”

“Mmm?”

His fingers traced the hollows of Caranthir's hips, occasionally straying to lightly tease his cousin's length, watching with delight as the familiar deep flush built in Caranthir's cheeks, and his breath came faster and the heat between them rose. Outside, lightning flared. He pulled his cousin close, hooking one leg over his back, pushing against him as their kisses grew frenzied and fierce. He opened his mind to Caranthir, felt the rush of ecstasy beginning to build, the needle-sharp burn of pleasure spreading through his thighs and stomach and hips – and he smiled, and drew gently away.

_“Fin...”_

Finrod reached under his pillow for the silk scarf he'd secreted there earlier. “This is for not coming back to me earlier.”

Caranthir smiled. “Oh?”

“Yes. Oh.” Finrod rolled them both over so he straddled his cousin, and ran his fingers over the rows of gold studs in his cousins ear, then tugged lightly at the ring through his left nipple, making Caranthir yelp and then groan. “You know, you are so very beautiful.”

In reply, Caranthir stretched back his arms, wrists against the bed rails, ready to be tied.

The taxes and accounts lay forgotten as the storm raged outside, and in Caranthir's chambers, they gave in to the heat and fire, shattering each other again and again - sometimes slowly and sensually, edging each other unbearably close and then holding back, and sometimes with the wild, grappling, almost vicious passion he imagined had ruled their forebears by the mere of Cuiviénen.

Caranthir fell asleep at dawn, while the storm still snarled overhead. Finrod sat up in bed for a while, drinking wine. Had he done the right thing, he wondered, when he had seduced his cousin in a tent at Mithrim's edge, both of them reeling and grieving and stunned? His father would not have forbidden it, though he would certainly disapprove. And Amárië...

In his heart, though, he knew that the Findaráto who would have wed Amárië was gone beyond recall. Did he love his cousin instead, now? If he did, it was not in quite the same way.

_But does one ever love twice in the same way? I begin to think not._

He stroked a strand of thick hair from Caranthir's face, and his cousin gave a gentle snore. He smiled. This was useless speculation; all was as well with the world as it could be. For now they had one another, the realm prospered, and they were at peace.


	10. Chapter 10

**Aman**

**Fourth Age**

“There you are.”

Finrod turned and smiled at Amárië, and patted the space on the stone bench beside him. “I've been back for hours. And I'm not exactly hiding.”

“Aren't you?” She sat beside him, kissed his shoulder, and took his hand. Ahead of them the hills spilled down to the river; air currents chased through the long grass, and the sky was deepening into a reddish pink. “Do you know, I remember sitting here with you when there was no bench, no garden, and no house behind.”

He laughed. “I remember too. You nearly had to carry me back down again.”

“It was my fault; you weren't ready for long, hilly hikes.”

“It was nobody's fault.” He leaned his cheek against the top of her head. “None of us knew any better, then.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

Finrod sighed. “I have a terrible feeling that you're about to lecture me.”

“You told me that you weren't the same. You told me that you knew I wasn't either. You told me that the past could not come back, but that we could build something different, if we were willing to try.” She squeezed his hand. “And we were. And we did.”

He gave her a stern look. “Don't think I don't know what you're talking about.” Even though Caranthir was still out with Argon, Finrod lowered his voice. “I thought...I thought when I went to meet him, that it would be alright. He was better than I expected he would be. Steadier than Edrahil, strangely, and more accepting than Turgon, who only wanted to see Elenwë, and insisted he could ride and there was no need for the wagon...”

“...and then fell off the horse and broke his arm,” Amárië finished. He felt rather than heard her sympathetic sigh. “Poor Turgon. But Caranthir wasn't like that?”

“Not at all. He even...” Heat crept through Finrod's cheeks. It seemed odd, discussing it with Amárië, even though they had not been lovers for many long years. “He allowed me to touch his face – you know what that means, what that can feel like.”

“Yes.”

“I think, if I'd tried, he would have let me kiss him.”

“And now?”

“His guard is up all the time. It's like trying to embrace one of Aunt Findis's cactus plants.”

“For a moment I thought you were going to say 'embracing one of her billy goats.'”

Finrod laughed a little. “That's almost as apt.” He shook his head. “My aunt has the most peculiar pastimes.”

“There's nothing the matter with keeping goats.” Amárië placed a hand on her hip. “Or if you think there is, then you'd better not mention it to Eldalótë.”

“I wouldn't dare.”

A light breeze hissed through the trees. The scent of orange blossom and rosemary curled through the air.

“Finrod.” Amárië's tone was gentle, yet firm. “You don't think that Caranthir is drawing away from you because your own guard is up?”

He smiled wryly. “You feel it, then.”

“It's like trying to place a hand on the glass of a lighted lamp. Yes, of course I feel it.”

“The trouble is...”

“I know what he can do,” Amárië interrupted. “And I know that, whatever it is _you_ feel, you're frightened to let him feel it too.”

Finrod looked at her, startled.

“He would not expect it to be straightforward.” Her voice softened again. “But I've watched him. He's afraid. The thing that once gave him so much grief could now be a gift to him, reborn into this place he left so long ago, not knowing whether those he was closest to even care for him any more.”

“I hope that he won't think that, after today.”

“No.” She smiled. “I imagine Arko will have done him some good.”

“An excellent idea of yours, I think.”

“Naturally.”

Finrod chuckled. “And do you have any more suggestions?”

“Yes.” Her tone hardened. “Whatever fences you have set around your mind, I think it's past time you took them down.”

Finrod tipped back his head, looking to the sky as though for answers. "Should I give him the letter?"

"That, my darling, is entirely up to you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Nargothrond**

**F.A. 465**

The peace had not lasted. He had known it would not. The fires of the Bragollach had ripped his bright, beautiful brothers from him and driven Celegorm and Curufin to his door. He had welcomed them warmly, kissed them and embraced them and put his home at their disposal, and for a while, for a brief, inward breath of time, there had been an echo of joy and a flavour of the old days, like the lingering taste of good wine.

 _My dear,_ he had written to Caranthir. _I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that you are safe. Your brothers, as I am sure they have told you, are well; we are grateful for the forces they have brought, and more thankful still that so many of our family made it through unscathed._

He did not mention his fallen brothers, his shining stars, and nor did he add “for now” - but whether he voiced it or not, the days now held that delicate delight of the waning of autumn, the knowledge that at any time the warmth of the sun will chill, and the world will be plunged into winter again.

He felt its approach at first without knowing what it was. Awareness of it came gradually, but once it was there, he could not help but dwell on it – like a thread of the wrong colour woven through a tapestry. And when Beren entered Nargothrond and held aloft the ring that he, Finrod, had given to his father Barahir, he understood.

He watched the Oath rise inside Celegorm and Curufin like a snake waking from sleep, reared and poised to strike again.


	12. Chapter 12

_My dearest cousin,_

_I cannot begin to hope that you will understand. Would you believe me if I told you that this was the only way through, and out? Perhaps you would. Too many people in your life have failed to give you the credit you deserve; I would hate to be one of them._

_I have told you before that things – futures, fates, pathways – come to me with a sense of utter certainty. Sometimes it is a vision, though it may make little sense at the time. Sometimes it is simply a weight of knowledge. This, though, was different. I saw and felt the stirring of the Oath in my halls tonight, and my first instinct was to stop it, to refuse Beren – or to agree, and then swear that once we had met Thingol's demands, the Silmarils would be returned to to you and your brothers._

_I did neither of those things. I felt as though I were looking into a shattered mirror, and suddenly it was lit from behind, and all the cracks blazed and glowed like paths of fire. Then, one by one, the shards fell away, until only the true path was left._

_My dear, if I refuse him then Beren will die on this Quest and the Silmarils will remain in Morgoth's crown. If I accompany him and swear another oath to return the jewels, then I know only that I will be thwarted, though I cannot say how; that way is hidden from my mind. Whichever way I choose there will be sorrow and great hardship for our people, but if this Middle-earth is to be saved for those who come after us then I must go with him, and go without condition or deceit._

_I cannot be certain when or whether you will read this. Perhaps I am not truly writing it for you; perhaps it is only a paltry attempt to convince myself that I am right, for I know well what I am going to. If it does reach you, I would only ask you to keep faith, if you can. I neither ask for nor expect forgiveness._

_I hope that one day we will see each other again._

_Your loving cousin,_

_Finrod_


	13. Chapter 13

**Aman**

**Fourth Age**

Before he left with Beren he had given the letter to Orodreth, who in turn had sent it to the Havens with Gil-galad. The intention, he knew, had been for Círdan to somehow ensure it reached Caranthir – but Beleriand had fallen into darkness, and the chance had never come.

Eventually it had made its way back to Valinor, and to Amárië, with a few of his other effects. Like so many things, it had been enchanted, with spell-songs woven over it to protect it from the ravages of time. He knew, though, that Amárië had never opened it. If she had any idea of its contents, she had never said a word.

He turned it over in his hands now, considering.

_I neither ask for nor expect forgiveness...I cannot begin to hope that you will understand..._

From the garden he heard the low, woody pop of a cork from a wine bottle, the murmur of voices, Amárië's sweet, light laugh, and Caranthir's laconic response.

Finrod placed the letter back into the draw. One day, perhaps. Not yet.

He went to join them in the garden, and saw with a start that Caranthir had changed his clothes. Gone were the drab, dark garments his cousin had favoured since his rebirth; now he wore a white silk shirt with sleeves like spun cloud, soft leggings of dark red leather, and a velvet jerkin of scarlet and gold.

Caranthir tilted his head as Finrod approached, and smiled a quiet, inviting smile that seemed to come from an Age long ago. Finrod took a breath, and let his mental walls drop for the first time since he had stood with his cousin outside the woods of Mandos. Caranthir gasped, and Finrod watched intently as a riot of emotions chased through his cousin's eyes - understanding, guilt, resentment, fear, acceptance, _love_ \- and when it was over Caranthir turned away for the briefest of moments. When he looked back up, the smile had returned - more certain, now, and more at ease. A meeting of equals.

Amárië watched all of this quietly; now she approached Finrod, a glass of wine in hand for each of them. She, too, had changed; she wore a long slip dress like liquid silver, and around her shoulders was a gauzy scarf dusted with tiny pink crystals.

“Are we dressing for dinner now?” Finrod kissed her cheek.

“Why shouldn't we?”

“I don't know.” He accepted a glass of red wine. “It strikes me as a little old fashioned, that's all.”

“Pay him no attention.” Caranthir unfolded his long limbs and came to refill his own glass, flickering an eyelid in Finrod's direction as he did so. “He's jealous because for once we're making him look shabby.”

Finrod arched an eyebrow. “Jealous? _Shabby?_ ”

Caranthir shrugged, and smiled again.

The moon swam over the river. Beyond its shining curves, the towers of Tirion glowed. Talking, laughing, teasing, the three of them made their way to the stone bench; he sat with Caranthir on his right and Amárië on his left, and from there they watched the deepening of the night and the brightening of the stars.

After a short while the housekeeper emerged and murmured in Finrod's ear that dinner would be slightly delayed. He held up a hand, halting the flow of apologies.

“There's no rush, Sáriel.” Lightly, almost imperceptibly, he felt his cousin's fingertips brush the back of his wrist. “We are quite content for now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am extremely indebted to the following:
> 
> \- Dalandel, for the gorgeous art (see more [here](https://www.deviantart.com/dalandel)), for the brainstorming sessions, and for her unbelievable patience with me.  
> \- Raiyana, for nudging and supporting and suggesting, for sorting out my messy metaphors, and for answering my summer-long bleats of "will Dalandel like this?".  
> \- Dawn Felagund, for her incredible work on in-world narrative bias in the legendarium, and specifically for [this post about Caranthir.](http://themidhavens.net/heretic_loremaster/2018/07/caranthir-the-slandered/) I have also made use of fanons about Caranthir's telepathic abilities, which originate with Dawn's fic _Another Man's Cage_ (although my interpretation isn't identical), and there are definite although unintended parallels to her 2019 TRSB fic _The Hourglass Runs._  
>  \- Himring, whose fic _Neighbourly Relations_ got me thinking about Caranthir's relationship with his cousins.  
> \- Bunn, for her map of Tirion and the lands around it, found [here](https://cycas.tumblr.com/post/183002435764/a-dubiously-scaled-head-canon-map-of-tirion).
> 
> A note on the use of names – my application of Sindarin and Quenya names is not entirely random. Most of my reborn exiles think of themselves with the names they used in Beleriand. Because the flashback sections are written as one or the other of them remembering, they also think of their cousins and contemporaries with their Sindarin names. 
> 
> Maedhros is an exception to this; the Elf who emerged after years of torment on Thangorodrim would, I think, have felt sufficiently different to the gentle Nelyo they knew in Aman that there would be some sort of separation in their heads, and they would use his older name when looking back on that period in his life.
> 
> Argon is another exception. He wasn't in Beleriand for long enough to actually use a Sindarin name, so he still goes by Arko, or Arakáno.
> 
> In the published Silmarillion, Amárië is spelled without the diacritical mark over the 'a', but it is used almost completely consistently in other instances, so I have used it here.


End file.
